


Paper Thin

by Kanuvina



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ben is kind of a douche, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Hux is kind of intolerable, I don't know anything about NY, I don't know anything about the writing profession, I'm Sorry, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Slow Burn, Social Anxiety, a lot of bad language, so so much bad language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-03 09:00:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6604837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanuvina/pseuds/Kanuvina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben Solo is a volatile writer languishing in New York City. He needs a big break and he may have found it in an eccentric billionaire recluse named Logan Hux. What begins as an opportunity to write an untold story rapidly descends into an unhealthy obsession. Ben may have bitten off more than he can chew as he enters the dark, isolated world of a mentally-compromised shut-in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all, thank you for giving my burgeoning fic a chance. I haven't written a narrative in almost 8 years, so I feel really rusty. I hope my story is interesting to read, nonetheless.
> 
> Please feel free to comment here, or message/ask me anything on my Tumblr at @generalgingersnaps

Ben slouched in the chair outside his agent’s office, balancing a cup of steaming black coffee on a satchel in his lap as he stared blankly at the clock on the wall opposite him in the small lobby. A receptionist sat at a large desk to his left, talking incessantly on the phone about something Ben didn’t really give a shit about. He’d only been waiting five, maybe ten minutes, but it felt like hours. Maybe this is the day she finally drops me, Ben mused darkly to himself. His agent, Eileen Phasma, had every good reason to do just that. Before Ben could go through the mental catalogue of reasons he might be royally fucked, the receptionist held her call to inform Ben his agent would see him now.

Ben nodded, gathered his untouched coffee and bag, and headed for Phasma’s office. He tapped the door a couple times and heard her call from behind the door to enter.

“Ben,” she called out cheerily, not taking her eyes off her laptop screen. “Have a seat. Can I get you anything?”

Ben gestured with his coffee to indicate he was taken care of, but realized she wouldn’t see the gesture. “Uh, nope. I’m good. You have work for me?”

Phasma looked up from her screen at his words, her crisp blue eyes falling on Ben’s five o’clock shadow and the beginnings of a purple bruise under his left eye. She sighed. “You look like shit, Ben.”

Ben slumped heavily into the seat opposite hers. “Yea, thanks. Good thing you’re not a modeling agent, you’re a literary agent. You have work for me?”

Phasma sighed again and leaned back in her tall-backed leather chair. She brushed a few short blonde hairs out of her face with her fingers. “There’re slim pickings out there for you right now, Ben. I’m scouring every magazine, every periodical… Nobody wants your name attached to them right now.” Phasma gave Ben a scouring look. “You really need to chill the fuck out.”

Had anyone else said this to him, Ben would have lunged at them. He would have lunged at them and grabbed their head and slammed it repeatedly on the mahogany desk to a bloody pulp. He knew Phasma was on his side, though, and even though she could be irritatingly blunt, she did it for his benefit.

Phasma was not intimidated by Ben’s brooding expression in the least. She pressed on. “You currently have two restraining orders out on you, and one is from a former colleague. I shouldn’t have to tell you how bad that looks. It paints you as too volatile, too dangerous to work with. That might have gotten you a book deal five years ago when ‘edgy’ was in, but people in this circle are tired of it now.”

“Fuck them,” Ben grumbled. “I don’t give a shit what a bunch of yuppie hipster New York writers think of me – they’re so fucking phony, I can’t stand it.” Ben knew how petulant he sounded, but that didn’t stop his miniature tantrum. “And honestly, if you knew Finn, you’d punch his ass too. That guy drives me up a goddamn wall!”

Phasma pinched the bridge of her nose. “I do know Finn, Ben. We see each other at the gym three times a week. I basically had to beg him not to press further charges against you.”

“Yea, well,” Ben trailed off and slinked further into his chair. He really wanted to punch his fist through a wall right now, or maybe Finn’s face again. That hack.

“Look, I found something for you, but I already know you’re going to bitch about it. It’s easy work though.” Phasma pushed a sheet of paper with a short paragraph detailing the job over to Ben. “The New Yorker wants a puff piece…” Before she could even finish her sentence, Ben rolled his eyes and scoffed and huffed, but Phasma ignored this. “They want a puff piece about the 10th anniversary of that subway bombing that killed all those people. They want it to focus on that wealthy couple, the Huxes, who died.”

Ben sat up and sneered. “Oh wow, really? The New Yorker wants some bullshit article about the 1%... color me shocked.” He pushed the paper back at his agent. “Fuck that. I’d rather write about Japanese sex robots or some shit – this will kill any cred I have, Phasma!”

“Look, it’s work. It pays the bills! You can write whatever you want,” Phasma realized the dangerous implications of what she just suggested and backpedaled, “I mean, you can write whatever you want within the parameters of what they want, but you have some freedom to meander. Just take the goddamn job, Ben.”

Ben didn’t say anything for a long moment. He didn’t want to write an article about some poor unfortunate billionaires who died amid 23 other Regular Joes who nobody apparently gave nearly as much of a shit about. Ben did need the money, though. His bills were all overdue and he’d been subsisting on ramen and hot dogs for almost a month now.

“Shit, I’ll do it,” he conceded grumpily and snatched up the paper from the desk. He got up to leave, then realized it would probably be appropriate to thank his agent for sticking her neck out for him. “Uh, thanks. For everything. Really.”

Phasma sighed and nodded. “Yea yea, just please stop getting into shit with people, Ben. You’re a good writer, and it would be nice to be able to get you jobs and book deals in this town.”

Ben ignored this as he walked out of Phasma's office.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for continuing to read this! I've decided my Hux's first name will be Logan... I just like the name and I feel like it has a nice ring to it. Anyway, please enjoy.
> 
> (The terrorist attack that is referenced here is fictitious, as well as the town of Innehagua)

Ben took a few gulps of his now-tepid coffee and tossed the rest of it into the trash in the parking garage. He opened the dented door of his black ’97 Corolla and slid in behind the wheel. Ben threw his satchel down below the passenger seat and looked again at the sparsely-worded sheet of paper Phasma gave him. He glared at the words on the paper as if he could somehow convey the large amount of contempt he had for this job directly to the editors of the magazine.

“Fuck,” Ben spat acidly. “Let’s get this shit over with.” He turned the key in the ignition, which labored under his hand to desperately start. A few more colorful curses and turns, and the car started up. Immediately, the CD player in his car picked up where it had left off, midway through “Disarm” by the Smashing Pumpkins – it was a particular favorite of Ben’s.

_I used to be a little boy_

_So old in my shoes_

_And what I choose is my choice_

_What's a boy supposed to do?_

_The killer in me is the killer in you_

Ben tossed the sheet of paper onto the seat next to him and restarted the song. He’ll do the job, but he already knew he would half-ass it. His heart just wasn’t in this – the subject, not the writing. Ben would have loved to write about what he was passionate about, if he knew what that was. For the last five years, he didn’t know what that was. Nothing inspired him. Ben wrote one book to its entirety and, through family connections, had it published. It became an instant hit, landing on the New York Times bestsellers list. He even did a few interviews for literary digests and NPR.

Then, the backlash started. One critic referred to it as “Adolescent emo drivel of an entitled rich white boy.” Finn, who Ben knew from creative writing classes in college, made an on-record comment during an interview for his own book that brought to light questions about the authenticity of some of the experiences Ben had written about in his book. Talk shows stopped calling for interviews with Ben, and book sales started to take a dive. Walking into a bookstore and seeing his book on sale for 75% off less than a month after it was lauded so heavily left a bad taste in his mouth.

Ben needed to write a new book, something different, but he didn’t have a desire to do anything other than non-fiction. He couldn’t live off these scraps Phasma was trying her hardest to find him. He knew she was pulling every string she could, using all her connections, but it wasn’t enough. Ben needed to prove he wasn’t a one-hit-wonder.

So, Ben would write this stupid yuppie article, and he decided it would be his last. If he had to live in his car and eat Cup Noodles until he had a publishable book, he would do it. He just needed to find that thing that interested him enough to write an entire novel about.

It was four o’clock when Ben arrived at the library closest to his apartment. He needed to do some research on these dead rich people, the Huxes, and he could use the library databases to scrounge up some articles from 10 years ago. Ben picked out a table in the emptiest corner of the library and dropped his satchel down with an echoing thud. He actually cringed at this; he kept forgetting his laptop and cellphone were in the bag. Ben was always too rough with his things – this had to be his third laptop, and he really couldn’t afford to be so haphazard with it like the previous ones.

Ben started going through different newspaper databases and collecting articles on the subway bombing of 2005 that killed 25 people and injured nearly a hundred others. He looked through dozens of pictures of the devastation, watched video clips of news reports. When he felt he had enough information about the terrorist attack, he turned his focus on the Huxes themselves. The husband, English-born Brendol Hux, made his success in the tech field when he was young, working on operating systems and software for military use. He married a New York socialite, Brie Adencort, whose family was very wealthy and very influential in state politics dating back nearly two centuries. Ben skimmed through articles about the funeral, went back further to find articles on their philanthropic endeavors and business ventures. The Huxes had a very diverse portfolio, owning properties up and down Manhattan and in upstate New York, as well as investing in tech ventures in Silicon Valley.

Ben would be impressed if he cared at all about things like this, but he didn’t. He took notes on his laptop on whatever he found that might be relevant for his article, then moved on to the Huxes’ personal lives. He noticed in many of the articles a son was mentioned, someone named Logan. In older articles there were pictures of a little ginger boy in a private school uniform, usually hiding behind his mother Brie’s leg, or holding his parents’ hands. Ben realized, after continuing to dig, that more recent articles had no pictures of Logan. Ben searched for articles and obituaries, wondering if maybe he died before his parents, but there were none. Then, Ben found a very short article from New York Social, a hoity-toity rag about and for Upper East Side elites, about young billionaire bachelors. It was about as shallow as Ben expected, but the Hux kid was mentioned in it as one of these desirable young men. Ben figured Logan Hux must have been about 20 years old when the article was written about him.

Ben began scrolling through the article, tabbing to take some notes occasionally. He scrolled down some more and suddenly paused. There was a picture, and Ben had to grudgingly admit that, yea, this guy was pretty attractive.

 

 

He stared at the picture a long time – there was something about how Hux looked at the camera with such a penetrating and somber gaze that made Ben’s mouth go dry and his heart beat a little faster. It wasn’t attraction, per se, although Ben could honestly admit he found the redhead awfully good-looking. No, it was something else that made Ben instantly want to know more about this guy. Where was he? Why wasn’t he in any of the funeral pictures? Wait, was he at the funeral? Ben scrambled through his previous searches and scoured the photos from the funeral. He didn’t see Hux in the front rows usually reserved for family, but then he spotted him some rows back and Ben was startled at how different the Huxes’ son looked. His hair was longer and his face more hollow. His eyes looked dark, empty. The time difference between the New York Social article and the 2005 bombing was about four years, and yet Logan’s appearance had changed so much for the worse. This was the face of a man who had lost something long before he lost his parents.

Ben realized he wanted to know more about this haunting, elusive person. He wanted to know what ever happened to him and where he is now. Ben felt an excitement he hadn’t felt in a very long time. He needed to contact this guy, get a meeting with him. Ben did a search to see if he could find any social media accounts or email addresses linked to Logan Hux, but nothing came up. He then searched for phone numbers or city addresses, and still nothing came up. Ben looked at the time on his laptop – it was 10:53pm. He did not even realize he’d been working that long. He could maybe get Phasma to find this information for him, but it was pretty late and she might be asleep. Then again, it was Phasma – Ben was pretty sure she got less sleep than he did. Impatient, Ben grabbed his phone and wrote a text to Phasma:

> **Ben: I need you to find contact info for someone for me**
> 
> **Phasma: Ok. Who?**
> 
> **Ben: Logan Hux.**
> 
> **Phasma: Why? For the article?**

Ben looked at her response and pursed his lips. He didn’t even care about the article anymore, but if this got him the information he needed faster then so be it.

> **Ben: Yea.**
> 
> **Phasma: Great, ok. I’ll see what I can do.**

Ben felt restless. He wanted this information yesterday, and he just prayed Phasma would be able to get it. Ben began typing out ideas and questions on a separate word document, his fingers flying over the keys so fiercely the loud click-clacking garnered a withering glare from one of the librarians. Ben ignored this and kept typing. He would get this article for The New Yorker out of the way in the next day or so while Phasma got him Hux’s information, then he could focus solely on that.

The library closed at midnight, so Ben finished typing out his thoughts and stuffed his things into his satchel. As he was heading out of the library, at a quarter to midnight, Phasma texted him back:

> **Phasma: I couldn’t get anything but an address. 113 Camille St, Innehagua, NY 14423**

Ben grinned at the message. An email or a phone call would have been more convenient, but he could write a letter. He could wait a couple days, if he needed to – this was worth it. Ben thought about how he would word his letter as he drove the five blocks to his apartment building, parked, and walked up the three flights of narrow dark stairs to his studio apartment. He jiggled the keys in the rusty lock and entered, tossing his satchel onto the small writing desk next to the door. He was too motivated to even worry about putting something in his stomach, instead sitting at his desk and pulling out a notepad to begin drafting his letter. Ben mustered all of his couth and decorum, trying to remember how formal letters should appear and sound.

Several wadded sheets of paper strewn on top of and around his desk, Ben finally had what he felt was an appropriate letter of request addressed to “Mr. Hux.” Ben would need to get a stamp in the morning. In the meantime, he was too excited to sleep. He decided to sate a bit of his curiosity and look up the address he was sending this to on Google Maps. He turned on satellite view and the screen went from pale gray to lush green. Clicking the street view, Ben raised his eyebrows – this wasn’t some little vacation house on the Finger Lakes. This was a vast estate out in the middle of nowhere. Ben had never even heard of Innehagua. According to Wikipedia, it was apparently a small town of about 5,000 people. This just created more questions for Ben, and he reopened the word document he created for this new project and added those inquiries to his growing list.

Satisfied he did everything he could until the next day, Ben undressed and got into bed. He always had trouble sleeping, his mind going over and over things from the past, present, and future. As he finally settled in, Ben’s lingering thought before he fell asleep was of how strangely out of place that pensive photograph of Hux was in a vapid article about eligible rich men. Ben felt like he already knew this man and they had never met before. He hoped to remedy that soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check out "Disarm" by the Smashing Pumpkins if you've never heard it - the song just fits Kylo Ren and it's such a damn good song.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I'm really sorry it took me so long to post this chapter... I was struck with a serious lack of motivation. I am going to endeavor to post new chapters more frequently.
> 
> You are welcome to leave comments, and if you want to message/ask me anything on Tumblr, I am @generalgingersnaps :)

It had been three weeks since Ben sent his first letter. He would check his mail slot at the base of his apartment building’s stairs religiously every day, sometimes even twice a day. Nothing arrived from Innehagua. Nevertheless, Ben persisted. He wrote four more letters in the span of those three weeks – he had the stamps, so why not?

Still nothing.

Ben tried to distract himself. He would go out and enjoy the ample nightlife of New York City, but he didn’t exactly have anyone to share it with. Ben had always been something of a loner; people irritated and let him down too easily to make any sort of lasting relationships. He knew he was picky: people were too shallow, not smart enough, too fake. He always found some reason to despise anyone he spent enough time with, including family.

So, it would be another night in after going to the library to do more research on the Hux family history. Ben found himself just rereading the same articles over and over, and constantly going back to the picture of Logan Hux in the socialite magazine. He printed the article out, but found he had all the information from it in his notes already, so he cut the picture out and tucked it into the notebook where he scrawled his immediate thoughts and ideas for his writing. Ben would find himself going back to the notebook for any excuse to open it and look at the picture. He felt mildly embarrassed: nobody could see him do this in the privacy of his own home, but he knew what he was doing. He found himself imagining what it would be like to sit across from this guy and watch his little micro-expressions. Does he fidget? How does his voice even sound? Ben wondered if this Logan Hux gestured a lot with his hands. Looking down at the long delicate hands that rested on a slender waist, Ben groaned. He needed to chill out. He was getting way ahead of himself. He forced his mind to go to the image of what Logan Hux probably looked like now, more like in the funeral photo – gaunt and tired, empty. This didn’t abate Ben’s desire to invade every aspect of this mysterious man’s privacy and inner workings. If anything, it made him want that even more.

It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and Ben had forced himself to only check the mail in the morning before he left to run errands and go to the gym. He sat at his desk by the door, restless. Fuck it, he’d check it now and if there was no mail, he’d check it again later in the evening. Ben stormed out the door and flew down the stairs to his mail slot. He rammed the key and turned it, and he was rewarded with two slender white envelopes. He stopped breathing and snatched them up. The first was his electric bill; he stuffed this clumsily into the back pocket of his jeans and stared down at the other envelope. His eyes widened as he read the sender’s information at the top-left:

_Dopheld Mitaka, Curator_

_113 Camille St_

_Innehagua, NY 14423_

_Ben’s hands were trembling. “Fuck! Fuck fuck fuuuuuck,” he murmured tensely as he tried not to tear the letter apart in his hands in his excitement. Forcing a finger into the opening on the side under the adhesive flap, Ben broke open the envelope and yanked two sheets of perfectly-folded paper out. He frantically unfolded it and began reading, his mouth moving silently as he read:_

_Dear Mr. Solo,_

_I am writing on behalf of Mr. Hux in response to your inquiry. He has shown interest in your proposal to write a biography about him. While your enthusiasm seems excessive, it is nonetheless noted. You must understand, the delay in response is attributed to the necessity to do a thorough background check on you and take inventory of your previous work. While I have sincere doubts based on these two factors, Mr. Hux’s desires override my own and he has urged me to invite you up to the estate for an initial meeting. Should it go well, you can expect Mr. Hux to be fully on board with a novel._

_Mr. Hux does not have a line of communication outside physical mail. If you need to contact me, my number is (315) 555-8480. Otherwise, you are welcome to visit after October 7 th. This will give us ample time to prepare for your arrival. I am told to invite you for the weekend, so perhaps pack an overnight bag._

_Regards,_

_Dopheld Mitaka, Curator_

_P.S. Attached is a Nondisclosure Agreement that you will need to sign before we proceed. This is only to assure that, in the event there is a decision to terminate this endeavor, Mr. Hux’s privacy is not compromised. Thank you for understanding._

Ben looked at the other paper, but didn’t bother reading it. He would sign it, no problem, if it got his foot in the door. Ben ran up the stairs to his apartment, the letter and NDA gripped tightly in his hand. He tried to remember what day it was and couldn’t think straight. Checking his phone, Ben let out another string of curses – it was October 5th. He’d have to wait two days before he could drive up to the Hux estate. That felt like torture, even though he already had to wait weeks just for the response.

But Ben had nothing else to do but wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I prooooomise, Hux makes his appearance next chapter.


End file.
